


War for the World's End

by RiddleofStrider



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark Fantasy, Demons, Epic Battles, Fantasy, Imperialism, Intrigue, Other, Strategy & Tactics, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 21:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14317758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiddleofStrider/pseuds/RiddleofStrider
Summary: The Inquisition has been reduced to a manageable size and relegated to the role of peacekeeing force and political go-between.  It remains, however, an army formidable enough to give any potential adversaries in Thedas pause.  Their primary objective:To hunt down and bring to justice the fugitive mage Solas, by any means necessary.  For a year the Inquisition has hunted with no sign of their quarry, until one night Solas appears, seemingly out of thin air, in the War Room of Skyhold.He comes bearing an apocalyptic message: A being of immense power known only as 'The Dragonborn' is coming to Thedas with malicious intent, and it poses a greater threat to the people of Thedas than anything that has come before.Once again the heroes of Thedas are faced with an all-to-familiar challenge.  Unite the land, bury old emnities, stand against the darkness.  And they must do it together, for the war that they now face will determine how their world will end.For the Dragonborn comes, and he is bringing Fury with him.





	War for the World's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas makes a surprise return to Skyhold, seeking aid from the Inquisition against a new threat.

Marcus didn’t know what to say. Solas stood in front of him with his hands folded behind his back, his face serene as ever, the very picture of poise and calm. It was as if the last time they had seen each other, Solas hadn’t revealed he had been behind the Breach all along and was still planning on destroying the world as they knew it. And to add literal injury to figurative injury, had then proceeded to remove Marcus’ hand to save him from the Mark that was apparently about to kill him.

Marcus hadn’t been exactly grateful for the favor, and time, as it turned out, did not heal all wounds.

He looked down at his hand, or where his hand should have been. The sleeve of his uniform was folded and pinned just beneath the elbow. Over a year later and he could still feel his fingers. Some days he would even try to pick something up before remembering he was grasping with nothing. Ironic, as a mage he could still call lighting from the sky and conjure fire from thin air, yet something as simple as eating dinner continued to be an ordeal that pushed the very limits of his patience. It made him feel impotent and angry, and now the object of his anger was standing in front of him with that damnably familiar expression of superiority.

The two men flanking the Elf were not nearly as composed. Cullen’s face was a mask of stone, but his fidgeting was unceasing, his stance was tense, and his knuckles shown white against the hilt of his sword. Dorian’s mannerisms were even more hostile. His face contorted in an animalistic snarl as sparks danced between twitching fingertips. The Altus was looking for the slightest hint of provocation, any excuse to unleash his pent-up wrath.

Solas didn’t give him one. He stood so still he might have been a statue. No shifting feet, no throat clearing, he didn’t even blink. Even after all that had happened and all Solas had come to represent, Marcus couldn’t help but to admire him.

Which was the only reason Skyhold wasn’t up in arms, and that this meeting was taking place in the utmost secrecy. 

“Give us the room,” Marcus said quietly, and two pairs of eyes bulged out of two heads.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said stiffly but with a noticeable edge of panic in his voice, “I really don’t think…”

“Have you lost your mind!?” Dorian yelled. He crossed briskly to Marcus’ side and leaned over so they were eye-level. “You cannot possibly expect us to leave you alone with him!”  
Marcus slowly got to his feet and made a show of straightening his already perfectly pressed black and gold uniform.

“Solas has requested a parlay,” he said calmly. “We will honor that request in the good faith that it was made.” If Solas was at all surprised or intrigued by the Inquisitor’s measured approach, the only indication was a raised eyebrow. Dorian on the other hand guffawed in disbelief and looked desperately at Cullen for support, but the Commander could only shrug, mouth agape. Dorian leaned in closer to Marcus and grabbed his arm tightly.

“Marcus,” he whispered frantically, “Please don’t tell me to leave this room. He…” Dorian trailed off momentarily and then glared at Solas. “He is a monster.” For the first time since entering the chamber, Solas’ eyes left Marcus and darted quickly to the floor, a shadow of what might have been sadness or regret crossed his features. Marcus gently removed Dorian’s hand from his arm and clasped it tightly in his own.

“It will be alright,” he said with a certainty he did not feel. “If he hasn’t tried to turn us all to stone yet, it is unlikely he will,” Marcus said with a grin. Dorian did not find humor in the remark. His nostrils flared as he looked at the floor, helplessly raging inside. “Go,” Marcus said quietly, “We will speak soon.”

Dorian took a deep breathe nodded. He gave Marcus’ arm a final squeeze and turned to stalk out of the room. He paused less than an inch from Solas and stared daggers at him. For his part, Solas turned his head slightly to avoid eye contact.

“If you harm a hair on him,” Dorian said through clenched teeth, “I will pull all of Skyhold down around your ears to ensure you never leave it.” Solas kept his eyes straight ahead but nodded slightly. Dorian took a few steps back and spit on the floor in Solas’ direction before stomping out of the room. Cullen watched him go before turning to Marcus, pleading with him one more time with his eyes. Marcus gave him a slight nod and Cullen shook his head, making his opposition to the decision know. 

“As you wish, Inquisitor,” the loyal soldier said. He backed out of the room and closed the large double-doors. The sound of a heavy deadbolt sliding into place echoed off the walls, and then the room was silent.

And there they stood, two men who had once been the closest of friends, now sworn enemies, neither knowing quite what to say. Solas’ facade of superiority finally faltered, and for a moment he looked no more than a confused young man.

“Thank you for saving my life,” Marcus finally said. Solas looked genuinely surprised by the remark, an expression that turned to outright shock as Marcus’ fist caught him square in the jaw and sent him sprawling to the floor. “And that’s for my other hand!” he yelled, “And just…just…everything!” He turned his back on the fallen Elf and tried to shake the pain out of his knuckles as he walked to the other side of his desk. Solas lay on the ground for a moment, looking confused and hurt, like a child who had been shoved for no apparent reason. He placed his fingertips lightly on his lips, and they came away red. For an instant the look of betrayed innocence disappeared, and wrath shadowed his features, his eyes radiating a raw energy. Then in a moment the anger was gone, replaced by his usual thoughtful expression. He even grinned and let out a small chuckle as he picked himself up off the floor, somehow managing to make the action look dignified. 

“I suppose I deserved that,” he said simply. Marcus whirled on him, quivering now with unabashed rage.

“You suppose?” he asked incredulously, “You suppose? There are hundreds, no, thousands of good men and women across Thedas, widows and widowers and orphans made such by your machinations who feel you deserve much worse! And I…I have yet to be convinced they are wrong!” Solas grimaced as though he had been struck again and clenched his eyes shut. 

“I know,” he said quietly, “And that knowledge gnaws at me every moment of every day.”

“Oh my,” Marcus retorted sarcastically, “Your grief cuts me to the quick, Fen’Harel! Please, tell me how I may ease your burdened conscience!” Solas’ eyes narrowed to a glare.

“Such mockery is unworthy of you, Marcus,” he said gravely, “You are of a much higher quality than that.”

“Am I, now?” Marcus replied. He stalked slowly around his desk, his eyes now the ones radiating with an unsheathed power that Solas regarded warily. “And why,” he said slowly, “Would I give a damn what you think of me? Everything, everything that has happened, everything that we and all Thedas suffered was your fault! Every tragedy, every horror, every death can be laid at your feet! Whatever evil Corypheus was pales in comparison to your mad quest to bring back a world none but you even remembers! None of the havoc that he wreaked could have been accomplished without you!” He slammed his fist on the desk and sparks flew, igniting little flames on the surface that quickly blinked out, leaving tiny tendrils of smoke behind. Solas remained silent and still as Marcus shook his head and leaned against the nearest pillar, suddenly looking weighed down by exhaustion and grief. “And throughout all that chaos and carnage,” he whispered, “Your only true fear was that the monster you created would reshape the world before you could, that his mad vision would be the one that would come to pass instead of yours.” Marcus looked over his shoulder at Solas. The only look in his eyes now that of trust betrayal. “All along the monster we should have been fighting was you.”

“Marcus,” Solas’ voice was strained, tinged with pain, as if each accusation hurled against him physically hurt. “I never thought things would end up this way. I never thought…” Solas completely abandoned any pretense of stoicism and his eyes began to water with the beginnings of tears. “You showed me so much, all of you did. There is a beauty and an honor in this world that I never believed was possible. Had I known, had things been different at the beginning…” Solas trailed off and shuddered, bowing his head in what seemed to be defeat. “But I cast my die before I knew the reality of the world in which I awoke. So obsessed was I with restoring what was lost I could not see what was in front of me. I only wished I had realized the error committed while there was still time to turn back. Perhaps I could have preserved the good of the present and married it to the wonders of the past. I could have created the perfect world…” Solas turned his eyes heavenward, and they seemed to glaze over. The effect was all too eerie, and a for a moment Marcus’ hackles of alarm raised. Then Solas seemed to come back to the room, bowing his head as his shoulders slumped.

“How do you know when Fen’Harel is lying?” Marcus asked coldly. Solas looked up at him with pleading eyes. “His lips are moving.” Marcus walked to Solas slowly, his expression blank, his words razor-edged. “I don’t believe a word of what you just said, Solas. You don’t regret a thing, you don’t wish things had been different, you aren’t trying to find another way. Because if you were, if you really believed your own lies, you would just stop. Stop it, Solas. Come back to reality and fight to make this world better. Or better yet, just crawl back into whatever cave you came from and go back to sleep. And don’t fucking wake up again.” As Marcus spoke, Solas’ back straightened, he squared his shoulders and his face became hard. The two men stood face to face, hands clenched into fists, power radiated from them and for several drawn-out seconds they threatened to explode. It was Solas who finally, with some effort, broke the standoff. He took a few steps back and folded his hands behind his back.

“Whatever I am,” he said blankly, “Whatever I have done, whatever I had hoped to do, none of it matters anymore. The world has changed yet again in a way I could have never foreseen.” 

“Why are you even here, Solas?” Marcus asked, becoming exasperated.

“I have come to warn you,” he said. His eyes seemed suddenly vacant, staring through Marcus at some point far in the distance. “My dreams have been troubled of late. The Fade is…in turmoil it seems. The Spirits will not speak to me, they scurry about to hide themselves in any nook or cranny they can find. Even the Demon lords seem to be withdrawing into themselves, shoring up their defenses, it is like they are preparing for a fight on their home ground.” Something in Solas’ voice, his expression, gave Marcus pause. Whatever his faults, the Elf was wise and not easily troubled. But now he seemed more disturbed than Marcus had ever seen him before, and something told him it was not an act. 

“I’m listening,” he said.

“They whisper amongst themselves,” Solas said as if in a trance. “They all whisper the same thing. ‘The Dragonborn comes from the East. The Dragonborn comes with fury and death at his heels.’”

“The Dragonborn?” Marcus asked slowly sitting down and crossing his legs. “Who or what is that supposed to be?”

“I do not know,” Solas replied. “I am not even sure the spirits themselves fully comprehend it. All I know is that when I walk the Fade, it is permeated by a fear I have never sensed before. A fear of oblivion, of non-existence.” 

“Of death?” Marcus asked.

“No,” Solas said. “Of something far more profound. Death is not part of a spirit’s natural existence, it is a consequence of interaction with the physical world. As such, any spirit or demon who has not had any contact with the physical realm is fundamentally incapable of comprehending death. And even if they were,” Solas continued, “For the denizens of the Fade ‘death’ is not a truly permanent state. Their essence endures, and in time is simply manifested as another being of its original nature. These are truly immortal creatures who, for the first time in their eternal existence, are comprehending the possibility of non-being.” Marcus stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“And why should I care?” he asked simply. “We mages lose our powers in exchange for spirits and demons never being a danger to anyone ever again, plus it will probably sod your plans over pretty good. That’s an exchange I would make in a heartbeat.” Solas seemed stunned for a moment and then shook his head in outright contempt.

“Have you grown so dense in our time apart that you think for a moment that a creature who inspires such complete and utter fear of annihilation in immortal beings would be in any way benevolent toward the physical world? You assume I am concerned only for the well-being of my friends in the Fade? This Dragonborn, whatever it is, is not a demon or a spirit or some other incorporeal entity. It is flesh and bone, something that exists simultaneously in this world and the Fade. It is as though he has the abilities of the most powerful of the Dreamers while he is still awake! Something like that has never been recorded in all the long histories of your people or mine. Someone or something that exists in the mortal world and the Fade simultaneously and effects both with its actions. Make no mistake, if we do not find some way to stop this, your world will burn. The Fade will burn. Any hope I have or ever had of restoring my people will vanish. The Dragonborn is coming, it is driven by a hunger and a will to dominate. If we do nothing, no one will survive. We may not survive anyway.” Marcus stared at Solas, trying to measure what was being laid before him. He stood and turned to gaze out the windows at the snow-shrouded peaks of the Frostback Mountains. He could not trust Solas, not after all that had passed between them. But neither could he ignore what was being said. For a year the Inquisition and the Chantry and most every other power in Thedas had been tracking the Elvhen god with every resource they had available and come no closer to finding him. Now Solas had literally presented himself on a silver platter and seemed to be begging for the Inquisition’s help. Why? No scenario Marcus could envision lead to anything other than sincerity on Solas’ behalf, as hard as it was to believe.

“If all you say is true,” Marcus said, “How can we possibly hope to defeat such an entity?”

“Because as powerful as it is, it is not omnipotent,” Solas said, recognizing that Marcus was slowly beginning to come around to his side. “I believe this is a being that desires above all else, domination and power. To the extent Corypheus did, or perhaps even more profoundly.”

“It wants to be a god?” Marcus asked.

“Yes!” Solas exclaimed. “And what does any aspiring god need? Followers. An army of followers ready to do anything on their behalf. I believe that this being, just like the Old Gods or Andraste will be preceded by an army. A crusading zealous horde out to change the world for the better. And in doing so will hand the reins over to a master they cannot truly comprehend and whose designs have nothing to do with their well-being or any others!” 

“An army, I see.” Marcus said, turning to face Solas, he shrugged. “So where is it?” he asked. “You said the spirits are whispering that the Dragonborn is coming from the east. If he is bringing an army along, where is it coming from? Ferelden? The Free Marches? An army of that size could not possibly hide in any of those places. Even Tevinter knew of the Venatori and shared intel on them with us.” Solas hesitated for a moment and sighed.

“Across the ocean,” he said. Marcus stared at him blankly for a moment before replying in a deadpan tone.

“There is nothing across the Amaranthine,” he said, “No ship has ever made that voyage and returned.”

“Perhaps that is because they found something,” Solas said. “Every race has legends of a land beyond the ocean. Even my people in the glory days of Elvhenan told tales of it. All of those legends from all of those cultures dating back to the very birth of the world, why should they not hold some truth? And if they are true, why should there not be folk there? You know as well as I that the world does not end at the edges of the map. And if the Fade reflects the physical world around us, the spirits are getting restless because the Dragonborn is getting closer, along with his army. They are sailing toThedas from across the Amaranthine.”

“So, what then?” Marcus asked. He walked up next to Solas and they stood side by side. “Do we join forces? Fight side by side until this Dragonborn is defeated, then you go back to trying to destroy the world and I go back to trying to stop you?” Solas looked confused for a moment, then he glanced at Marcus almost fondly.

“I forgot how full of faith you are, how optimistic of ultimate victory, it is why people follow you” he said. “To tell you the truth, I have not thought that far ahead this time.” Marcus took a moment to process those words and then looked at Solas in amazement. 

“You don’t think we’ll win,” he said. 

“No,” Solas said quietly.

“Then why fight?” 

“Because I am Fen’Harel,” Solas said matter-of-factly. “I do not know how to submit.” He looked again at Marcus and smiled sadly. “And neither do you, Inquisitor.” 

“No,” Marcus said quietly, “I suppose not.” The two men stood there for a while, staring out at the frost covered peaks. “You can’t stay here,” Marcus said finally, “It isn’t safe.” Solas nodded.

“I had no intention of staying,” he said. “I need more answers. I will be in touch once I find some.” Marcus nodded and turned to face him, his expression once again dangerous. 

“Solas,” Marcus said firmly, “I hope you appreciate the risk I am taking by trusting you again.” 

“I do,” Solas responded.

“Then understand this as well,” Marcus said. “If this is another trick, if you betray us again, there will be nothing, nothing I will not do to personally see to it that you are buried deeper than any archdemon ever was. Do you comprehend what that means?” Solas looked Marcus up and down and nodded slowly.

“Perfectly,” he said. A small gust of air suddenly buffeted Marcus’ face, causing him to blink. When he opened his eyes, Solas was gone. He stood there, alone in the war room. He walked to his desk, poured himself a tall glass of Antivan whiskey and downed it in a single gulp, then poured himself another. He swirled this one thoughtfully and sat down wearily. He tried to process everything that had just happened, but his mind seemed incapable of doing so. And so he continued to drink, trying to burn away the cold rock of fear that had settled in his gut.

It did not work.


End file.
